


Welcome to Camelot Hotel

by schweet_heart



Series: Camelot Drabble Fic [10]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Attempted Murder, Cliffhangers, Community: camelot_drabble, Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Magic Revealed, Minor Character Death, Murder, Prompt #232: calm before the storm, Prompt #233: why are you doing this to me?, Prompt #234: No stop!, Prompt #235: chaos, Stalking, Suspense, Suspense Month, Violence, remix eligible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-22 03:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8271113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: When his Uncle Gaius' old friend needs a favour, Merlin jumps at the chance to rent a flat in the newly refurbished Camelot building at a substantial discount. So what if the previous tenant left in a hurry in the middle of the night? It's not like the place is haunted or anything...Written for Suspense Month at camelot_drabble. Happy Halloween, everyone!





	1. Please check your baggage at the door.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In retrospect, Merlin should have known that it was too good to be true.

In retrospect, Merlin should have known that it was too good to be true. The Camelot Residential Complex was one of the Pendragon Corporation’s latest projects, a state-of-the-art Grand Hotel built in the late 18th century that had now been refurbished into luxury inner city apartments. It was the sort of place Merlin was unlikely even to be invited to, let alone somewhere he could imagine himself living, and yet here he was, not two months after being kicked out of his previous flat, about to finalise the lease on one of the best apartments in the building.  
  
This particular windfall had come about largely because of his Uncle Gaius. Apparently, the flat’s previous tenant had gotten drunk and trashed the place before bolting in the dead of night for parts unknown, which had left the owner and proprietor, Uther Pendragon, in something of a bind. He couldn’t rent the flat to his usual clientele in its present state, but nor did he want to waste the potential income by allowing it to lie vacant until the work was completed. Fortunately for Merlin, Uther and Gaius were old friends, and when Gaius heard that Merlin was in need of somewhere to stay, the old physician had come up with a solution. In exchange for a permanently low rental price (which nevertheless threatened to stretch his meagre budget almost to breaking point), Merlin had agreed to do most of the repairs and repainting himself, in accordance with Pendragon’s exacting specifications. Merlin had some experience with redecorating, so it wasn’t as if he was a complete novice, and since he rather suspected Uther Pendragon’s idea of “trashed” was roughly equivalent to his “slightly untidy with some minor surface damage,” he rather considered himself to have gotten the better end of the deal.  
  
“No one’s died here or anything, have they?” He joked to the property manager once everything had been sorted, trying not to appear too intimidated while she rifled through her desk for the relevant contract form. “No murders in the building, strange clanking noises in the basement? I heard the last tenant left in a bit of a hurry.”  
  
“No, nothing like that,” the manager said, drawing out the words in a bored tone. She handed Merlin a swanky pen that was quite possibly made out of real gold and slid the form across the polished wooden desktop towards him. “Well, not recently.”  
  
Merlin’s hand paused at the bottom of the rental agreement. “What do you mean, not recently? How recently?”  
  
The woman smirked, and waved one delicately manicured hand. “It was decades ago, love, back when the place was first built. Ancient history — not something you need to be concerned about.”  
  
She seemed so confident that Merlin only hesitated a moment longer before pushing aside his doubts and scratching his signature on the dotted line. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice that sounded a lot like Will’s told him that this was definitely a very bad idea, but Merlin ignored it. Will wouldn’t know a bad idea if it bit him on the arse — the fact that he’d broken up with Merlin on fucking  _Valentine's Day_  was just another case in point. The manager took the completed form from him and scanned it briefly, then handed him a set of keys and a security card with a satisfied nod.  
  
“Let me know if you have any problems, love,” she said, in a tone that meant he’d better not have any problems, if he knew what was good for him. She smiled, showing too many teeth, and Merlin smiled automatically back, a little alarmed but trying not to let on. “I’m in the office from 9 to 3pm most days. Name’s Vivian. The number’s on the fridge.”  
  
“Thanks,” Merlin said weakly. A persistent prickle of unease had begun to radiate up his arm, spreading from the touch of the keys in his palm and crawling over his skin like ice. Probably it was only that the air conditioning was up too high, he reasoned, shivering. Old buildings like this one were prone to unexpected temperature changes. There was probably no need for him to worry.  
  
Probably.  
  
  
  
  
The original Camelot Hotel had been built in traditional neoclassical style, with a succession of faux columns lining the exterior facade and a broad white arch marking the front entrance. Inside, the narrow rooms had been opened out into a series of modern, open-plan apartments, four to each floor, which could be accessed by means of the original stairwell or (more commonly, Merlin suspected) via a lift that required security clearance to access. From what Merlin had seen, the majority of the interior looked like something out of a  _Home and Garden_ magazine, which made what had happened to Apartment 7D all the more shocking when he stepped inside.  
  
“Holy shit,” he breathed, pausing in the doorway to take in the devastation. The furniture in the living room had been entirely up-ended, a chair and rosewood coffee table lying smashed and broken against the far wall. The wallpaper had been torn down and was hanging in curling strips from one corner, while the sofa had several massive rents along the back, large, gaping slashes that almost looked as if they had been made by claws. An ominous dark stain spread across the carpeted floor, and Merlin felt a chill ripple along his arms. This was more than just a bit of drunken property damage: the whole flat had been systematically ripped apart. “What the hell happened here?”  
  
He closed the door and locked it behind him, then picked his way gingerly through the debris to check the bedroom. In two steps, the chill had intensified, slithering urgently down his spine and across the back of his neck. Above the bed, scrawled in an unfamiliar hand, was a message, written in deep purple ink that was somehow worse than blood.  
  
_HELLO EMRYS,_  it said.  _I’VE BEEN WAITING._


	2. Things that go bump in the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You didn't know, did you? You always were oblivious to the things that were right under your nose. Whereas I knew all your secrets from the start.”

Merlin tried to keep calm. With all the lights on and the furniture upended, he knew that he was alone in the flat, and although the note on the wall was creepy — how the hell had the previous tenant known his name? — there was sure to be a rational explanation for it. He hoped. In any event he wasn’t about to be frightened off by what was probably some asshole’s idea of a joke. He had promised his Uncle Gaius, after all.  
  
Apart from the horror movie vibe and the distasteful purple scrawl, the bedroom was in better shape than the living room; the bed and mattress were intact, although the pillows had been ripped to shreds and feathers were scattered all over the plush beige carpet. Shaking his head at the destruction, Merlin set about tidying up as best he could. He gathered the broken furniture into a pile beside the front door, ready to be carted off the next morning, then located a vacuum in the hall cupboard and cleaned up the feathers and other debris on the floor. He scrubbed the kitchen benches, pieced together the tattered shower curtain with tape, and managed to get the worst of the green slime out of the bathroom sink. The torn wallpaper would have to be properly removed and replaced, but in the meantime he trimmed off the ragged strips as neatly as he could.  
  
The writing on the wall, however, refused to come off.  
  
“Damn,” Merlin sighed. He had scrubbed until his arms ached, but the ominous purple lettering was still there, staring down at him mockingly from above the bed. In this light, the letters looked almost burned into the wall, their jagged shapes menacing against the pale silver- and white-striped background. Well, there was nothing for it. He’d just have to live with it until he got around to wallpapering the bedroom, which hopefully wouldn’t take too long. It wasn’t as if there was any terrible rush, really — while it might send a cold prickle down his spine whenever he turned his back, it was hardly as big of a problem as, say, the bathroom door, which had been ripped almost completely off its hinges.  
  
By the time Merlin had finished his preliminary clean-up, it was early evening, and the persistent chill that had dogged him since his encounter with the property manager had subsided into a faint sheen of frost against the window pane. Merlin shivered a little as he surveyed the results of his efforts. The flat was still a total dump, but at least he wouldn’t feel like he'd survived some kind of disaster when he woke up in the morning. He decided it was time to call it a day.

 

  
  
  
There was no food in the cupboards, and all the china had been smashed, so Merlin went out to dine at one of the local pubs, figuring that he might as well get to know the neighbourhood. He ordered a pint and some steak and chips, and spent a pleasant hour or two trying to convince a heavily intoxicated man that Man U was definitely the better team. Afterwards, he dawdled the two blocks back to the old hotel; it was a nice night, and given the state of the place he didn’t feel particularly compelled to hurry back.  
  
When he reached the Camelot building, however, Merlin was surprised to find the whole place shining brightly, including his own flat – although he could have sworn he’d turned the lights out before he left. Frowning, he went inside and made a beeline for the lift. Had the previous tenant returned unexpectedly? Or had Merlin simply miscounted the windows on that side of the building? It was dark, after all, and he'd had a bit to drink. It was possible.  
  
He had just reached the hallway outside number 7D when a sound from inside made him stop short, his breath condensing into a sudden cloud in front of him.  
  
“Why are you doing this?” A man’s voice demanded, clearly audible through the closed door. “I thought we were friends.”  
  
“We might have been, once,” said another voice, and Merlin gave an involuntary shudder at the venom that dripped from every syllable. “But that was before you broke your promise. You swore to always keep her safe."  
  
A pause, then the first voice said softly, "You were in love with her."  
  
“You didn't know, did you, Arthur? You always were oblivious to the things that were right under your nose. Whereas I knew all your secrets from the start.”  
  
The man gave a dry laugh that made Merlin’s skin crawl. He felt as if he were trying to breathe in icy water, his lungs contracting as a numbing frost spread throughout his body. His heart was pounding. Who were these people? How had they gotten into the flat? He ought to call the police, but when he fumbled for his phone wasn't in either of his pockets. He must have left it behind when he went out.  
  
“You’re mad,” the man called Arthur said in the living room, his voice shaking. “I don't have any secrets."  
  
“Don't you?” The other man sounded almost amused. “Are you sure?"  
  
There was a metallic click from inside the flat, and Merlin realised with sudden horror that it was the sound of a gun being cocked. His hand moved of its own accord, reaching for the door handle even as he tensed, ready to throw himself on whoever he found inside. It was idiotic at best, and at worst suicidal; there was a crazy person in his new flat with a  _gun_ , what the hell was he even doing? But despite the clamour of his survival instincts, he knew with a conviction that went beyond rational thought that he could not allow this man to kill Arthur. He  _couldn’t_. So he flung open the door with a yell, fully prepared to be shot at any second.  
  
There was nobody there.


	3. The more things change.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My dear boy,” Gaius said, peering at Merlin intently over the top of his spectacles. “It sounds as though your flat is haunted.”

 

“My dear boy,” Gaius said, peering at Merlin intently over the top of his spectacles. “It sounds as though your flat is haunted.”

 

Merlin shook his head. “I’m sure there’s some kind of rational explanation,” he said. “I mean, it’s an old building. Maybe someone in another flat was watching TV or something, and it carried through the ventilation system, and…”

 

Gaius shot him a look that suggested he was grasping at straws, and Merlin sighed. He had fled to Gaius’ house the night before, unwilling to even set foot in the flat after what he’d heard, and since then he had barely slept, certain that every creaking floorboard would herald some new terror. Something was definitely going on in the old hotel, and odds were good that it was nothing so benign as some freaky acoustics. He just wished Gaius wouldn’t be quite so blasé about it. 

 

“You’re right,” he said finally, giving up. “My flat is haunted. My fucking  _flat_  is  _haunted_. Of course I would end up with a haunted flat.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Do you think that’s why the previous tenant left? The ghost chased him out?”

 

“It’s entirely possible,” Gaius said. “From what you’ve told me about the state of the place, I can only imagine Arthur didn’t like your predecessor very much.”

 

That made Merlin frown. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “If Arthur is the ghost, then why the message in the bedroom? Why would he be waiting for  _me_ , of all people? I thought that sort of thing only happened in horror movies.”

 

“Usually it does, my boy. In real life, ghosts tend to be quieter. A sudden change in temperature, an orb in a photograph. Sometimes an apparition. But seldom anything like this.” Gaius sounded almost excited by Arthur’s atypical behaviour. “Perhaps he is trying to warn you about something — you said you felt a strong connection with him.”

 

Merlin nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, it was weird. It felt like I knew him, somehow…like he was my responsibility.”

 

Gaius made a considering noise, and got to his feet. As Merlin watched, he crossed to one of his many bookshelves and began to run a finger along the dusty spines. “What you’ve described,” he said over his shoulder. “It’s not altogether unheard of. There are some theories — suggestions, mostly — that ghosts are particularly drawn to those who…Ah, here we are.”

 

He pulled out a battered old volume and came back to the table, spreading it open just above Merlin’s plate so that Merlin could see the title page. In curling Greek letters, it read simply:μετεμψύχωσις. It wasn’t a word Merlin could remember having seen before, yet somehow he knew without asking what it meant.

 

Reincarnation.

 

 

 

By the time Merlin got back to the Camelot, it was nearly dark, and he felt even less eager to return to the flat than he had the night before. His unease turned into outright dread when, upon entering the lobby and turning towards the lift, he found that the elevator had disappeared. The wall was smooth and darkly panelled, as if it had never been disturbed, and Merlin was once more hit with a familiar wave of cold, his teeth beginning to chatter in spite of the evening's warmth. Part of him wanted to leave, to forget about this stupid place and Gaius’ ridiculous theories. But even as he urged himself to turn around and go back the way he had come, he found his body was no longer under his control. He was gripped with a sense of urgency that was not his own, and instead of turning towards the door he found himself beginning to run in the direction of the antique staircase. 

 

Driven by the unseen force, Merlin took the stairs two at a time, arriving out of breath on the landing in front of number 7D just in time to hear Arthur say, “I don’t have any secrets.”

 

Merlin’s key was already in his hand. He fumbled for the lock, his hands so cold they were shaking. Inside, the murderer laughed and said, “Are you sure?” He cocked the gun.

 

“No, please,” Arthur said. There was real fear in his voice now. “He’s done nothing to you. Leave him out of this.”

 

Blood pounded in Merlin’s ears. He was breathing fast from the climb, his legs wobbling, but he got the impression that whoever was directing him – his past self? – was used to climbing those stairs; that this was a path well-worn with familiarity. The other Merlin’s breathlessness was pure adrenaline. Or pure fear.

 

The key turned in the lock, and the door opened. Two men stood facing one another across a pristine living room, dressed in the sort of formal clothing Merlin had only seen in period films. One was blond-haired, handsome. The other was holding a gun.

 

“Merlin, run,” the blond man — Arthur — said quietly, not taking his eyes from the figure in front of him. “Get out of here.”

 

“No, stay, Merlin,” the other man countered, smiling. “You’re just in time to watch the show.”

 

He moved; just the smallest gesture, but Merlin felt his other self react without thinking.

 

“No, stop!” he yelled, flinging out a hand. To Merlin’s astonishment, a gust of wind came out of nowhere, apparently conjured by the sweep of his arm. Unexpected power surged through him, and the man with the gun was flung against the opposite wall with such force that his body made an audible crunch when it hit the plaster. Merlin stared at the crumpled figure, then at his outstretched palm. Panic welled up in his chest. What had he done?  _How_ had he done it? What kind of monster had his previous self been?

 

Beside him, Arthur turned slowly, something broken and awful in the way he kept clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. 

 

“You’re Emrys,” he said, voice turning hard with the sudden realisation. “You’re a sorcerer.”


	4. unfinished business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He heard the sound of the gun being cocked. A sudden freezing chill crept up the back of his neck. “Any last words?”

The distant past slowly faded from Merlin’s vision, leaving behind the now-familiar apartment and an empty sense of desolation. He remembered now; remembered how his previous life had ended. The mere thought of it made him dig his fingernails into his palms, needing the small hurt to ground himself in the here and now. Arthur was dead and gone, and his previous life was over. It was stupid to be upset about something that had happened hundreds of years ago.

 

“I never understood what you saw in him, really,” a voice said from behind him. Merlin whirled, his heart thundering. In his trance state, or whatever it had been, he had stopped in the centre of the living room the same way his past self had; now, the door to the hallway closed behind him with an ominous click, revealing a shadowy figure that Merlin recognised all too well. “He never had any power, not really. Him and his father, persecuting witches. They barely even scratched the surface of the things people like you and I could really do.”

 

“Mordred,” Merlin said, his voice shaking. “What are you — how did you find me?”

 

“Mostly by luck, really,” Mordred said, shrugging. He took another step closer, and the light from the street outside gleamed on the barrel of a gun pointing straight at Merlin’s chest. Merlin froze, a horrible sense of deja vu sweeping through him. “Admittedly, a small amount of precognition and housebreaking was involved. There isn’t much magic left in the world anymore, so we have to work with what we can get.”

 

He gestured, and Merlin allowed himself to be walked slowly back into the kitchen, where Mordred made him sit down on one of the few dining chairs that was still intact and tied his hands behind his back. 

 

“The previous tenant,” Merlin said. “That was you?”

 

“You know what they say about criminals and the scene of the crime.” Mordred smirked. “I’ve been waiting for a very long time to find you, so that I can finish what I started.”

 

Merlin licked his lips. “Well, the joke’s on you, then,” he said, wishing that he were the sort of person who owned a pocket-knife. Any kind of weapon would be really handy right now. “Because I haven’t even met Arthur in this incarnation; I have no idea where he is.”

 

Mordred clucked his tongue. “You misunderstand me,” he said. “It was never Arthur I came here to kill.”

 

“You tried to shoot him!”

 

“I tried to shoot  _you_ ,” Mordred corrected. “I wanted him to watch. After what he did to Kara, that was the least he deserved.”

 

Merlin’s head spun. “But,” he said. “Why kill me now, then? Arthur’s not here to see it. He doesn’t — “ His voice caught. “He didn’t love me anymore, anyway, after what I did.”

 

“Such a pity.” Mordred shook his head, sarcastic. “But now that I know what you are —  _who_ you are — and what you’re meant to do, I’m afraid I simply have to kill you. I can’t let you stop us from bringing it back, you see.”

 

“Bringing what back?”

 

Mordred leaned in close. “The magic,” he said. “Camelot. Albion. Really, Emrys, you have no idea what you’ve walked into, do you?”

 

There was a faint note of pity in his voice, but when Merlin looked up, he couldn’t see any compassion in his expression whatsoever. He heard the sound of the gun being cocked. A sudden freezing chill crept up the back of his neck. “Any last words?”

 

“Yeah,” Merlin said, swallowing hard. “Look behind you.”

 

And that, of course, was when all hell broke loose.

 

 

 

As Merlin tried to explain to the police afterwards, he was never quite sure how Mordred had ended up falling through the living room window to the street below. Nor was he ever certain how it happened that the would-be murderer came to be shot at point-blank range, with a gun that hadn’t been manufactured in over a hundred years. 

 

“Of course, it’s not like he didn’t have it coming,” said the officer who came to talk to Merlin about it, scratching the back of his head ruefully. “He’d been stalking this young girl for months — Kara, her name is. Poor kid’s been scared out of her mind, said he thought he was in love with her. Completely obsessed.”

 

“He did seem to be,” Merlin said, nodding. “He had some kind of — of mad idea that we were all reincarnated figures from legend. You know, King Arthur and all that. He thought he had some kind of magical powers.”

 

“Mm.” The policeman’s gaze flicked to the dark bruises around Merlin’s throat, then back up to the scratches on his face. “Sure you can’t tell us who killed him?”

 

Merlin thought about it. He thought about how he’d thrown himself at Mordred in a desperate attempt to make him drop the gun, and how it had gone off only inches from his ear, before Mordred had thrown it away and tried to strangle him with his bare hands.

 

He thought about another gunshot, this time from somewhere far away, and Mordred letting go of him, cursing, to face someone Merlin couldn’t see. As Merlin had watched, Mordred had stumbled back in shock – lost his balance – and after another, teetering second, fallen as though shoved and plunged straight through the shatterproof living room window. 

 

Most of all, however, Merlin thought about the cool, invisible hand that had cupped his cheek, the whispered apology he had heard before a bitter wind had followed Mordred out into the night, and Vivian had started pounding on his door. Did he know who had killed Mordred? Or had he imagined everything?

 

He shook his head.

 

“I didn’t see them, officer,” he said truthfully. If there  _had_  been someone else in number 7D, they were gone now, so there was no use talking about it.

 

It wasn’t as if anyone would believe him, anyway.


End file.
